


Wilde About the Boy!

by orphan_account



Series: Through all of Time [8]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why did Oscar Wilde write only ONE novel?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilde About the Boy!

The first week of the term was always the most difficult and Hilary term with its short days and long nights was probably the worst, the Senior Lecturer in Law reflected as he crossed the quad with a pile of books under his arm, intent on regaining his study as quickly as possible for he wanted to continue with his secret passion – writing.

 

Unfortunately the rugby team had been into town to celebrate their victory and were coming back drunk and in search of more sport. They set about him, causing him to drop his books, and twitching his gown up over his head before kicking his legs out from under him.

 

“You fellows! Stop that before I am forced to knock you down!” A voice that was languorous and calm and belied the violence of the sentiment being expressed called from the shadows.

 

“Oh t’is the fairy brigade!” One of the rugby players guffawed “Better not try it, Wilde, you might spoil that lovely hair of yours or get blood on your pwetti jackitt”.

 

Mr Lewis very sensibly stayed where he was. As long as they were engaged in banter with the aesthetes, he was less likely to get a good kicking, although they would all be up before the beaks in the morning.

 

With an exaggerated sigh, Mr Wilde stepped out of the gloom, followed by several other, similarly attired young gentlemen. He ostentatiously removed the cigar from his lips and handed it to one of his retinue, removed his velvet jacket and assumed the pugilist’s stance, knees bent, arms bent, fists up.

 

The rugby captain didn’t even bother removing his jacket and was very surprised when a straight jab connected with his chin, knocking him off his feet and laying him on the ground. One other of the team thought it worth trying and joined his leader following two more rapid jabs to the face. The rest decided that although effeminate in appearance, Wilde’s abilities as a boxer were most decidedly “manly”, so they turned and ran.

 

Feigning boredom, Wilde retrieved his jacket, put it on and continued smoking his cigar as if nothing had happened.

 

“And that, dear friends, is what results from a lack of imagination. Beauty is also strength. Never forget that and would somebody please pick up that lecturer, he is making the quad look damnably untidy.”

 

Mr. Lewis was helped to his feet and Wilde squinted at him through a haze of cigar smoke.

“This specimen is in dire need of brandy,” he pronounced and when the Senior Lecturer protested he continued “But I would so like to introduce you to my china! You must come!”

 

It may have been because Mr Lewis was indeed curious to see Mr Wilde’s famous “salon” which he had created in his rooms, that he allowed himself to be hustled away and up the winding stairs with no further demur.

 

The rooms had been decorated and furnished very much in the style he would imagine a Parisian salon for the literati. Enormous potted plants were dotted around the walls and all space was taken up with blue and white china, paintings, ormolu clocks, statues and every conceivable objet d’art.

 

Wilde took up his customary stance at the fireplace, one elbow on the mantle and his friends helped Mr. Lewis to a comfortable chair, placing a large glass of brandy in his hand. The “young gentlemen” were unknown to Lewis personally as they were studying the classics and greats. His eye was drawn irresistibly to one young man who stood very quietly to one side of Wilde, the only one in a sober grey suit and with hair more conventionally cut than the flowing locks affected by the aesthetes.

 

His beauty took Mr Lewis’ breath away. Never before, neither man nor woman had smitten his heart so suddenly and deeply with the perfection of their looks. Had he been indeed a follower of Mr. Wilde’s group, he would have wept with the sheer joy of looking at him.

 

“Ah, I see you are admiring my collection of pretty things,” Wilde smiled, following Lewis’ gaze. “Is he not the most adorable creature? Is he not the very embodiment of an angel, flown not fallen to earth?”

 

“Doesn’t say much, your pet monkey,” observed one of the other young men, flicking his hair back and draining his brandy.

 

“Ah, Mortimer, beauty such as James’ has no need of words.” Wilde observed “It is an end in itself. Wit with such looks would be honey as sauce for sugar, as the Bard observed.”

 

The other young man coloured slightly but continued merely to stare ahead, his hands clasped in front of him. Mr. Lewis felt anger begin to rise in him, how could they talk about this boy as if he were some statue or painting, not a human being, full of emotions and feelings? How dare they treat him in this way?

 

“James is my spiritual advisor, Mr. Lewis. I met him at Trinity in Dublin where I saved him from a life of piety. Theology and then the seminary were his destiny had I not come to his rescue. Without me, James would have fallen into purity.” His entourage laughed sycophantically at this but Lewis continued to be outraged on the young man’s behalf.

 

“He is educating me with an end to being accepted into the Catholic faith. I feel that God must exist in the adornments and ritual there, if nowhere else. And I am educating him to be accepted into society. Is that not so, James?” The young man nodded miserably but did not speak.

 

Mr Lewis finished his brandy and thanked his host before taking his leave and hurrying to his own study where he began to write feverishly.

 

A week later, passing him in the cloisters, Mr. Lewis noticed the young man he knew only as James and was alarmed to see that he was looking very pale and haggard. The dark circles under his eyes and the lines beginning to form from the corners of his mouth belied high living in the extreme. He stopped the boy as he passed and invited him to attend him for tea in his study that afternoon.

 

An invitation from a Senior Lecturer, even one who is not involved in that student’s subject, is more correctly seen as an order so the young man arrived on time, nervous and biting the skin on this thumb when the door was opened.

 

Seating him opposite, Mr. Lewis served tea and then said

 

“I didn’t have the opportunity to know your name, Mr?”

 

“Hathaway, Sir, James Hathaway.”

 

“Well Mr. Hathaway, I have asked you to see me because I am very concerned for your welfare. I am convinced that you have, in the vernacular “fallen into bad company”. Speaking as a man of the law, I warn you that keeping such company will bring you no good. I repeat, no good can come of it. You understand my meaning?”

 

The younger man fidgeted in his chair and blushed then nodded slightly.

 

“Mr. Wilde, amusing as he may be, is a very dangerous person for a young man of your tender years to know. He will come to a bad end and I should hate to think that he will drag you with him.”

 

James cleared his throat and replied

“That is very kind of you, Sir. But I am, that is, Oscar is my, he calls me his protégé. I have no means of my own and I depend on him entirely. If you wish me to be as frank with you as you have been with me, I find myself his creature.”

 

Lewis’ hand slapped down on the desk, making the young man jump.

 

“And that will not do, Sir – do you hear me? That will not do! I will speak even more frankly, Mr. Hathaway – if, as I suspect, Mr. Wilde is indulging in practices that are against the law, he will go to jail, as will any man proved to have been a participant. Do I make myself clear?”

 

James’ face was scarlet but he made no attempt to defend or deny the accusation. Breathing deeply to calm himself, Mr. Lewis continued

 

“If I can find a way to extricate you from his clutches, will you go?” James nodded dejectedly.

 

“Very well, then. I will speak to Mr. Wilde in due course and put pressure on him to release you from ….your duties as his spiritual advisor.” The contempt in the last phrase dripped from the words and he saw that tears sprang to the other man’s eyes. This only hardened his resolve to save the situation.

 

That evening and through the night, Mr Lewis worked tirelessly on the manuscript which had taken all his free time for two terms. Now that he had seen James Hathaway, he knew how it should end.

 

Nearly stumbling with exhaustion, he tied the manuscript together the next morning and made his way to the stairway leading to Wilde’s room. He mounted the stairs quietly and then hammered on the door, pounding with his fist until he knew he would wake the whole tower.

 

Wilde opened the door, clad in a silk dressing gown but with his long hair in disarray and his breath smelling of a night of drunkenness. Lewis forced his way past him and went quickly to the bedroom, throwing the door open to reveal James, sprawled across the bed and the covers on the floor.

 

Wilde was standing in the bedroom doorway, one hand to his mouth. Here was his nemesis, so soon! Lewis shook the boy awake and threw a dressing gown at him then turned to Wilde.

 

“You are no fool, Wilde, you know what I have been a witness to here. You know that I can now turn you over to the authorities and you will stand trial before you are sent to prison. I am not going to do that. I am taking him away and in return you can have this.” He thrust the manuscript into Wilde’s hands. “Although it is more than you deserve, I do this only to save the boy.”

 

He hustled the half-awake James into his clothes, out of the rooms and along to his own study where he gave him a few sovereigns and instructions to take the post coach to Aylesbury where he could lodge with Lewis’ widowed sister until the end of term, when Lewis would come and make arrangements for him to find work.

 

Meanwhile, Oscar Wilde turned the pages of the manuscript in his hand. “The Portrait of James Hathaway”, he breathed “Oh yes, this is good, this is beauty.”


End file.
